I was twenty-six years old, and I was still a virgin . . . My date, Joanie, and I went to a rehearsal of the Steve Allen show to catch Lenny Bruce . . .
Then Joanie and I went to the Mad building. Bill Gaines' office had . . a framed portrait of Alfred E. Neuman himself, watching over me while I lost my sexual innocence, just as he had been watching over a whole generation as they lost their cultural innocence. Joanie and I were rolling around on the carpet, kissing and groping and undressing each other. To open the convertible sofa now would interfere with our compulsive spontaneity.
I had read so much about Bartholin's glands, how they lubricate the vaginal cavity and take the friction out of intercourse, but now that I was actually putting my thing into her thing, now that I was sliding around inside another person's body after fantasizing about it for so many years, it occurred to me to flap my arms like wings to make sure I wasn't dreaming — but, since my weight was on my elbows, I couldn't carry out that particular reality check without losing my balance. Joanie and I were beginning to reach that certain point in lovemaking where the voluntary is on the verge of becoming the involuntary. I needed to get the condom which had been residing in my wallet beyond any possible estimated shelf life, so I stopped moving while I still could, and broke the silence with a strained yet noble whisper: "I better put something on."
I had never heard a girl say the word fuck before, and I was just a little shocked to hear it now, even though we were in the middle of fucking. As our spasms of pleasure mounted and began to overwhelm us, her reply remained in my awareness — "You can fuck me without worrying" — then suddenly my verbal ejaculation became as inevitable as my physical ejaculation, and I simultaneously surrendered to both, blurting out, in a voice that was not quite my own, "What — me worry?" Even though I had been in the very throes of orgasm, I still could not resist responding to such a perfect straight line. — New York, 1958
from Confessions of a Raving, Unconfined Nut: Misadventures in the Counter-culture by Paul Krassner (Simon & Schuster, © 1993)
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